I plucked, ripped, and twisted her ocher skin,each drop of tangy flesh leading us downinto lost sanity and old glitter.Her legs fell, tortured by sunlight, her warmtha tease of approval meeting my print.I glazed her bubbling youth with myth and rhyme,passion and keys, knowing no grind of teeth.She took for granted the navy quiet.As morning took a bite of the darkness,She rose, clumsy, vacuous, but alive.Now mirror holds her skin tight and flaming.Memory led to no neat conclusion,and while light escaped her thighs, I questionedthe sweat of pink meat behind copper doors.

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